“Well, I’ll be darned,” said Dan. “I never knew you were a coward.” “I don’t care if I am. It’s better than being chopped to pieces under that train. I feel sure I should have gone under if I had made the attempt.” “Nonsense,” he replied. “Now we’re in a nice fix. We can’t stay here. We can’t walk across that wilderness. And we can’t catch a freight in the railroad yard on account of Jeff Farr. First time I ever saw you show the white feather.” “Just you wait till morning and we’ll see who’ll show the white feather. I’m going to walk right into that yard, and Jeff Farr or no Jeff Farr, I’ll board the first west-bound freight that pulls out.” Jeff Farr, as all the hoboes know, is an officer, especially dreaded because of his drastic methods of handling vagrants, who makes his headquarters at Cheyenne. We had heard of him repeatedly, for his fame had spread even beyond Omaha, and his mere name was sufficient to strike fear in the stoutest heart. In a disgruntled mood, we plunged into the bushes, and without attempting to make camp, threw ourselves on the ground and slept. At dawn we ate a cold lunch and turned back toward Cheyenne. At the west entrance of the railroad yard, a watchman stopped us. I pleaded our cause to such good effect that he turned his back and gazed into space as we scurried past. Two long strings of boxcars stood as though ready for the road, and as we approached, a brakeman clambered from the top of the nearest and spoke to me. He had noted the behaviour of the detective, so as soon as I explained the situation he motioned to the second string and told us that it was a west-bound train, already searched and passed by the detectives, and now waiting, under the guard of our friend the watchman, for engine and crew. Ducking across the tracks we examined the long line of cars, but each was shut and sealed. In the middle of the train stood several gondolas, and in lieu of nothing better, we boarded one. Crouching down, we waited for the start with every nerve at high tension. A pair of hands grasped the edge of the gondola. “Jeff Farr,” thought I with a shudder. A man’s head appeared above the brim. With staring eyes, he glared at us for a moment, then, with an inarticulate grunt, dropped to the ground. The brakeman who had directed our movements engaged him in conversation. Another pair of hands came over the other side of the car. Again a vision of revolvers, handcuffs, courtroom and jail flashed through my mind. Again a man’s head appeared. “Well, I’ll be blowed—a woman!” he gasped, and disappeared from view. Then a third man appeared. He evidently knew what to expect, for he stared at us with a friendly grin. “The boys said they was a woman up here, but I thought they was kidding me. Say, you folks got nerve—sticking your head into the lion’s mouth like this. Ever hear of Jeff Farr?” “It’ll take something a whole lot worse than Jeff Farr to keep me in this God-forsaken hole of a Cheyenne,” I replied.